Gerald Goldentongue
Gender: Male Race: Human Class: Bard Alignment: Chaotic Good Physical Description: Blonde hair, blue eyes, muscular, yet lithe. Clean shaven. Fair skin that seems to be perpetually tanned and to just the right hue as to be apparent without overstating its presence. About 6' tall. Always dresses in the newest fashions, budgetary restrictions allowing, of course. Personality: Gerald fancies himself to be among the most elite of bards known throughout the realms. The mere act of believing this, however, does not mean that it holds true in a world outside of Gerald's imagination. Oh, it is true that he plays the bagpipes quite well, and it is also true that he possesses a physique that keeps the fairer sex throwing coins his way. His voice is strong and he has memorized a vast number of tales that he can recite with flair and gusto to the amusement of the onlooker. In fact, Gerald is actually the epitome of bardness. The only problem is that Gerald is incredibly self involved and takes narcissism to a new level. Now, to be fair, he does manage to capture the eye of his fair share of beautiful women. And he also manages a high standard of living due to his popularity and natural charm. The problem arises, however, when more often than not the women are not always single and the income that affords him his easy-going lifestyle, usually comes from the coffers of an angry husband. Due to his indiscriminate habits, he has gained a certain infamy among the male population, while fostering a bad boy, musician fantasy, amongst his female fans. It is because of this that Gerald may never become the legend that he believes himself to be. For as any good Bard will tell you, you have to play to everyone to stay afloat in this game. Background: Gerald was born into a family of dirt-poor, gypsy-turned clay miners. Why they had ever decided to take up clay mining, having no prior knowledge of how to succeed in the trade, was never truly known even to them. What was known, was that they were quite awful at it and barely made enough to keep food in their mouths. The problem was the clay. They never seemed to be able to get the consistency right. It was always either too watery in the spring and too hard in the summer, or to squishy in the winter and too smelly in the fall. No one knew why it got smelly in the fall, but Gerald's father once confided in him that he suspected several of the family dogs had fallen into one of the clay pits and that they were slowly adding their contributions to the family business. Being born with a distaste for physical labor, as well as a more than healthy dose of self worth, Gerald naturally detested his families lot in life. He hated the clay that seemed to get tracked everywhere and never washed off no matter how many baths you take. He hated the fact that his parents had to scrape and claw for every copper that came their way. He hated, well, perhaps hated it too strong of a word, but definitely strongly disliked his thirteen siblings. He was actually the second from the youngest, making him lucky number thirteen. A fact that did not attract superstition within the family, but instead left him feeling rather lost in the crowd from time to time. But there was one part of growing up that he enjoyed, and that was the evenings. Every night after the work was done, dinner was eaten, and everyone was feeling somewhere between bone tired and happily fulfilled, they would gather in the large living area, or sometimes on the front porch on hot nights, and tell the old tales of their family before them. How they had been great explorers once and had wandered endlessly across the surface of Faerûn seeking knowledge and wealth. They told stories of their ancestral heroes, Like great, great, great, great, grandcousin Carmichael Cloverleaf who had once won an entire kingdom by playing a dice match with a king. There were tales of far off places and great, fearsome beasts. Tales of spirits, and ghosts, and ancient curses that followed bloodlines throughout the centuries. Tales of destiny, and love lost or gained. And Gerald listened to every story until he knew them by heart and could draw his family tree on the ground with a stick. This was also when he learned to play the bagpipes. Every member of the family played one instrument or another. His mother had an old viol that she used to play with such beauty that it could fill your heart to bursting. His father was the bagpiper in the family and it was the jaunty, easygoing tunes that he played when the mead was taking hold, that had attracted young Gerald to the instrument. Through the influence of his mother's soft, wavering, and almost ethereal playing, and his father's rousing dance melodies, Gerald was able to weave a style of playing that was breathtaking to hear. When he turned sixteen his mother took him aside and told him of the magical qualities that had been passed down through his bloodline. How, now that he had reached a certain level of mastery with his chosen instrument, he could begin to weave magic within the notes that he played. It was an amazing revelation to Gerald, not only that he could do that, but that it was apparently the best kept secret known to man since one in the family had ever talked about it, although he later learned that all of his older siblings were already proficient in the art. Regardless of his resentment for being kept out of the loop, Gerald threw himself into the task and in so doing, found a part of himself that he had been missing all of his young life. By eighteen Gerald had mastered all that he could learn of the art from his family and had begun to grow restless with the mining life. He told his mother and father of this and they explained that this was sometimes the case with descendents of the bloodline. Every so often someone was born with the wanderlust and must strike out on their own, or forever be doomed to a life of mediocrity. And so that was how Gerald left his childhood home and ten years later found himself playing a show at the Misty Beard in the great city of Waterdeep. Category:Humans Category:Bards